Madge walked over to him, trying to mask her fears.
“Mistress, you look lovely tonight,” said Master Smeaton, his eyes seeming sad. Madge thought he lacked his usual good cheer.
“Thank you, sir. Are you ill? You seem not yourself,” said Madge.
“I am … ever in the king’s service, though he breaks my heart,” said Master Smeaton with a strange smile.
“Has he been cruel to you, Mark?” said Madge.
“No, mistress. He is ever kind—it matters not—I wish you well,” said Master Smeaton.
“Give us a merry jig,” said the king.
Immediately, Master Smeaton changed his tune to one familiar to Madge from the rolling hills of Great Snoring. Though he played as well as ever, Madge watched as his doleful eyes followed the king’s every move.
The king began the familiar steps to the reel and Madge knew exactly what to do. That the king would know a dance common to the poor farmers in the north country surprised Madge. What learning escaped this king?
By the end of the song, Madge was breathless and she and the king were laughing at the whirling and spinning they had completed together. They collapsed upon a bench beset with soft pillows covered in silks and velvets. The king motioned for Master Smeaton to stand near them and told him to lay aside the virginals and bring his lute. He then instructed him to begin an old ballad of King Arthur and his lady Guinevere. The king began to sing softly to Madge in his fine tenor.
Though the king had chosen the song for its tale of love, the sound of Arthur’s name over and over brought a great sadness to Madge. She tried to imagine he were with her in this comfortable manor rather than the king. But in His Majesty’s presence, her Arthur seemed inconsequential and she was overwhelmed by the king’s own person. This, too, made her sad.
“’Tis a lovely tune and most sorrowful,” said the king after the song was over. “You have a tender heart, lady, to be so moved by my song.”
“Who could not be moved by such a tale? And Your Majesty’s—” said Madge.
“Uh, uh, uh, lady. I am Henry tonight, remember?” said the king.
“Yes. Forgive me … Henry. Your voice gives such feeling to the music—’tis as if the melody is in your blood,” said Madge.
“I have always loved music, Pretty Madge. And I will confess it moves me often to tears. We share so many things,” said the king.
“Yes. Our great love for the queen being another,” said Madge.
“Speak not of the queen, Pretty Madge. Instead, speak of your feeling for me. This is our first night as mistress and her humble servant. And I would serve you well, lady,” said the king.
“I cannot help but speak of her who brought me to court. After all, were it not for the queen, I would not be here with you tonight,” said Madge.
“’Tis true, ’tis true. What say you? Shall we send Master Smeaton away and enjoy our little lovers’ nest while the night is yet young?” said the king.
“Whatever you desire, Henry,” said Madge.
The king wasted no time in paying Master Smeaton with a small bag of gold and hurrying him out the door. Then, after latching it, he returned to Madge.
“Let us to bed, Pretty Madge. I wish no longer to wait,” he said, pulling her up from the pillows and into his arms. He kissed her, his small thin lips pecking against hers. There was no tenderness in his kisses and she felt nothing like the passion she knew when Arthur had kissed her. But Arthur’s lips were full and soft, and when he kissed her, it seemed their mouths melted one into the other. The king’s kisses felt as if a rooster were kissing her. Madge giggled at the thought.
“What amuses you, lady?” said the king in a husky voice.
“Nothing, Your Grace. I am more than a little nervous and when I feel this way, I often giggle. I fear it is a folly of my youth,” said Madge. She felt herself blushing.
“No reason to be afraid, my pretty one. I have deflowered many a maid and have been told afterward there has never been a more gentle and kind prince,” said the king, lifting her to him until her feet left the ground. He swept her up and carried her into yet another room, this one already lit with tapers and candles. A large bed with much elaborate carving on the headboard filled most of the space and Madge could see that the covers had been properly brushed and arranged. “Come, my dearest,” said the king in a soft voice.
Madge felt secure in his arms as she continued to be amazed at his strength. Though approaching his old age, Henry retained some of the physical gifts of youth. He laid her across the bed and began to take his clothing off. He was in his very fine nightshirt when he came to her. She could see his manhood poking at the thin linen, making a sort of tent.
He then began to remove her clothes. He began with her shoes and then her hose. He pulled her to a seated position and removed the sleeves of her dress, then her bodice. As her breasts revealed themselves and fell loose, he began to unfasten her stomacher. Slowly, the midnight blue came apart to reveal her shift beneath it. She started to unfasten the necklace but he caught her hands.
“I am your servant this night, milady. Allow me,” he said. He took the daisy crown from her hair and kissed each flower. Then he removed the necklace and kissed her neck all around. He quickly moved to her breasts, which he sucked and kissed, first one and then the other, for a very long time. In spite of her coolness of feeling, she did begin to stir within her own person. But she could not allow her lusts to overcome her; she must begin her work for the queen with a clear head.
“Henry, will you answer me a question?” she said as he rubbed her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, very gently.
“Anything, dearest,” he said, nibbling her nipple.
“What if … what if there is a child?” she said.
“What if there is! What wondrous news that would be! Any woman in the kingdom would be proud to bear the king’s seed! I would provide all your needs and our babe would be brought up like a prince,” said the king as he rubbed the palm of his hand lightly over her breasts.
“Or a princess?” said Madge.
“Or a princess. Have no worries, Pretty Madge. If you give me a healthy son, you will receive all the homage and honor I can grant to you,” said the king.
“But Henry, I fear the queen would not be pleased. And our child would be another royal bastard. This would not lead to peace in the future. It might make for another civil war,” said Madge.
“These are not worries for such a pretty head! Let us enjoy each other. Ahhh, see! You are already wet—in just a few more moments, you will moan for me,” said the king.
Madge worried that she was not speaking enough good about the queen. She felt she must do all she could before the king had her. Afterward, who knew what would happen?
“Henry … beloved, perhaps I will take a glass of wine now,” said Madge.
The king sighed. But he rose and bowed to her. “Anything my mistress desires, I shall make it so.”
In a few minutes, he returned with two glasses of wine. Handing her one, he raised his own to her and said, “Lady Margaret, to our love.”
“To our love,” Madge said.
Madge took a couple of sips and rested against the pillows. The king quaffed his glass down and set it on the nearby table. He lay beside Madge and began to fondle her once again.
“I was thinking…” she said.
“Of what, my love,” he said.
“When I was very young, the queen came to Great Snoring—she was also young, barely a maid, perhaps seventeen, the age I am now. She was so beautiful—her dark hair hanging down her back, her brown eyes like liquid. So lithe and graceful, she danced for my mother and father after our sup. Then she sang and like an angel it was. I have heard it said at court that she is the most beautiful woman in the whole of England,” said Madge.
“She is a beauty to be sure. And I remember her when I first saw her … if she could but bear me a son, I would love her better,” said the king.
“
She is still young, Henry. She could still easily give you a few boys to bellow and boast about,” said Madge.
“Humph. She could, if I would but plant the seed. Her tongue has grown sharp and her temper foul. Such changes have taken all my desire for her. I would wish my wife more pliant, more supple to my will,” said the king as he began to pull up the hem of Madge’s shift. He traced hearts on her inner thigh and slowly began to circle around her most private place. She could feel herself wishing to rise to meet his hand, but she did not. To show that she knew something of love might give him suspicions about her purity. She had every intention of convincing the king he would be the first to assail her. On the queen’s instructions, she had hidden a needle in the hem of her shift with which to prick herself after the king had taken her and had fallen asleep. The smeared blood on the linens would prove her chastity.
“But isn’t a wife supposed to urge her husband to be the best man he is capable of being? Surely, if Your Majesty thought highly enough of the queen to make her your consort, you must have believed she has wisdom and discretion as well as intelligence and beauty. So great a man as you, Henry, would need a woman who could use her brain as well as her body,” said Madge, gaining courage as she allowed him to touch her here, then there, then here again.
“Aye, she is not lacking in that way—and she has debated me most satisfactorily, especially when she speaks of the new religion and my role as head of the church. Ahh, how like you this, lady?” said Henry, thrusting his fingers into her slowly, back and forth, back and forth.
She could not stop the sigh that came from her. She found her thoughts more and more difficult to maintain. Suddenly, her desire rose in her body and she wanted nothing more than to yield to the king, to those fat fingers that prodded her so expertly. But she had to maintain focus on her mission—build up the queen.
“Dear Henry, if the queen is such a good woman, why do you wish to be with women like me? Would it not hurt the queen to think of you, her lawful husband, doing such?” said Madge.
“Good God, woman! Are you trying to unman me? Let there be no more talk of the queen!” shouted the king.
Madge snapped to her senses and all the ardor that had been building cooled. The king seemed to sense this and stopped his hands from their work.
“Let us have another glass of wine, shall we?” said the king as he rose to fetch it. Madge noticed that there was no longer a rise in his nightshirt. He brought more wine and they quickly drank two more glasses. Madge was beginning to resign herself to becoming the king’s true mistress that very night. She could think of nothing more to say about the queen.
“Now, we shall try again,” said the king. It was not a request but a command. Madge lay down next to him and they kissed. However, she did not feel the pressing of the royal person against her, as she had felt earlier. There was no hint of the king’s manhood.
Though they continued to kiss and the king fondled her, the act came no closer to being accomplished. Madge realized this was what the queen had warned her about. She decided to use the techniques mentioned by Her Majesty, though the mere thought of putting her mouth on the king was making her stomach queasy.
She began to kiss the king’s chest, slowly going lower and lower upon his body. She took her tongue and licked from his belly to his nipples and back again. Then she began to lick beneath the belly button.
“Lady Margaret, what is this? Who hath told you of such things? Hast the queen set you to these actions? Has she pandered you to me?” blared the king, sitting up in the bed.
“No, Your Majesty. I was following mine own desire—my desire for Your Majesty’s person. Forgive me if I offend. I am truly sorry,” said Madge, terrified.
For a moment, the king sat very still. Madge felt the urge to cry and decided if she were going to do so, this might be a good time.
“Pretty Madge, Pretty Madge … do not shed tears. It is I who should be sorry—I know you to be a true maid. It is this French lovemaking the queen brought with her—she is so skilled that it makes me doubt her own virtue. And, after I waited so long to taste of her, I am angered to think of what she may have done ere we met. I do not like her French ways of love—’tis debauchery of the lowest sort,” said the king.
“Oh Henry, I do not know if what I was doing was French or Spanish or English or Irish—I only know my body was in command of my better nature. As for the queen, I would stake my life she was a maid when she came to you. She is my cousin and I would know,” said Madge.
“Of course. You are right. So many speak ill of the queen, constantly babbling in my ears ’til I am almost mad! But you have it right, dearest,” said the king.
He rose from the bed and began to put his clothing on. Madge sat up and watched him, afraid to speak.
“Pretty Madge, what say you we arrange another night for our love. I have lost all desire and am weary with worry about the problems that plague the land. Would you mind if your servant brought you here another time?” said the king.
Madge rose in her shift, stood next to the king, and kissed him full on the mouth.
“My dearest Henry, we will try again as soon as you wish it. I shall be ready for you here,” she said as she touched her heart, “and here,” she said as she touched her womanhood. She heard him take a sudden breath.
“Mistress Margaret, you do know how to woo me,” he said.
Thirty-one
Though the king promised to steal away again with Madge soon, she did not hear from him in the days that followed. She reported all that had happened to the queen and the queen seemed quite pleased. The gossips had it that the king had lost his love for Madge and had turned his attentions back to Lady Jane Seymour. However, Madge knew better, for the king had invited her once more to meet him at the house on the Thames. This time, Sir Brereton was to accompany her on the king’s barge.
In preparation for what now seemed to Madge to be inevitable, she bathed and Cate helped her dress. She wore a silk chemise beneath her gown that was stitched with gold and silver thread and trimmed in Belgian lace. The queen had had it made for herself but decided such an undergarment would help entice the king. The gown she chose was deep green, bringing out her own pale green eyes. She wore the small chain of gold her mother had given her—she thought it would give her courage and help her remember who she was and from whence she had come.
She was to meet Brereton in the late afternoon, before supper. The king explained he wished to sup with her. As they sailed up the Thames, few boats were on the river. The day’s business was still being conducted in the streets of London, merchants selling their wares. Perhaps the king knew few would see her as she came to him. Perhaps he wanted to keep her as much a secret as he could. She silently thanked him for it.
They arrived at the house in what seemed like short time to Madge.
“Lady Shelton, the king awaits you,” said Sir Brereton, his smiling face handsome in the late afternoon sun.
“Thank you, kind sir, for bringing me. Safe journey,” said Madge as she watched him push off with a long pole. She lifted her skirts and strode up the path to the front door of the cottage. Before she could knock, the king opened the door and bowed to her.
“My dear lady, come in. You look very beautiful today,” said the king, taking her by the elbow. The room looked much as it had before, though the candles were not yet lit and the afternoon shadows played along the walls. She heard the sound of the lute coming from an inner room and knew Master Smeaton would be there. Somehow, the thought comforted her.
The king led her to a table filled with food: roasted duck, a suckling pig surrounded by stewed apples, loaves of white bread made with flour designated for the king and queen’s use only. A bubbling hot blood pudding was next to various tarts and other subtleties. There was enough food to feed three large families. Madge wondered what would happen to that which she and the king did not consume.
“Sit, sweetheart. Eat your fill—I intend to do the same,” said the kin
g as he speared a piece of pork onto his knife. The meat was so tender it almost fell apart. The king picked up the droppings and ate each morsel, licking his greasy fingers one at a time. “Eat, girl—you will need sustenance—for I intend to ravish you this night,” said the king, his red mouth shiny as he licked his fingers one more time, holding Madge with his eyes as he did so.
“Yes, Your Majesty … I mean Henry,” said Madge, taking her own knife and slicing off a bit of duck. She forced herself to eat a reasonable amount but she could not indulge the way the king did—her stomach rumbled and turned.
After they had supped, the king took Madge by the hand and led her into the same room with Master Smeaton. Madge and Master Smeaton nodded to one another, each unhappy, though for different reasons. Their unacknowledged sorrow seemed to bind them together and they expressed themselves kindly to each other. After the king and Madge had danced three dances, the king dismissed Master Smeaton with his usual bag of gold. He smiled at Madge as he left.
“Now, lady, I shall have that for which I have long waited,” said the king. He led her into the bedroom once again and quickly removed his clothing. Rather than wait for him to take her clothes off, Madge began to undress herself. Soon, she stood before him in her chemise while he was clad in his nightshirt. Madge saw he was aroused as he came to her.
“Ah, Pretty Madge … they all speak of you … my chamber men. Each would give his toes to have what I shall have this night. For you are a beauty and pleasing to me,” said the king as he walked toward her.
Madge curtsied to him, keeping her head bowed low.
“You do me great honor, sire,” she said. He lifted her and his strong arms embraced her.
“And now, my sweet, to bed,” he said as he picked her up and carefully placed her on the mattress. The sheets smelled sweet, like cloves, and Madge blushed to think of some cleaning woman coming to prepare the room for her.
“I have noticed how the queen…” Madge started to say.
The king placed his finger over her mouth and shook his head. “You will not speak this night, lady. You will obey me in this—for tonight, you are here for my pleasure and it is my wish that you remain silent,” said the king, not unkindly.
At the Mercy of the Queen: A Novel of Anne Boleyn Page 25
